


Set Fire To The Third Bar

by Measured



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Explosions, Gen, Hippies, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That would teach those hippies to come into <i>their</i> bar. Or what was left of their bar, at least. Better to be in flames than covered in flower art and stinking of peace and communist sensibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set Fire To The Third Bar

**Author's Note:**

> fic_promptly: Any, any, My date just wheeled me home in a shopping cart but it was normal. Except it's epic bromance, not pairing fic.
> 
> The title comes from a lovely Snow Patrol song which is about distance and not actually about blowing up of bars, but I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote the majority of this prior to the Shadowboxers comic, so that Soldier characterization was something Valve and I hiveminded on, I guess.

Soldier let out another hearty laugh as yet another explosion happened far off in the distance. That would teach those hippies to come into _their_ bar. Or what was left of their bar, at least. Better to be in flames than covered in flower art and stinking of peace and communist sensibilities. 

He'd hijacked one cart of questionable morality and quality and put it straight in for the service of taking Demoman back home. 

"Push the bloody cart!" Demoman bellowed. 

The cart was actually bloody–or maybe that was tomatoes. It was hard to tell. They'd showed that vegetable stand who was a _real_ patriot. Well, not Demoman, but Soldier had granted him honorary American citizenship on the basis that his explosions were American grade quality. Even if he claimed to be Scottish when _everyone knew there was no Scotland, just crossdressing Englishmen_ , Soldier knew better. Demoman was a real American deep down, he even had a pin and everything. Pins made things official, as Soldier would know. He'd awarded himself several medals of officialdom during his one-man march during the last good war, and that made him an official army man for sure!

The cart swayed like it was as drunk as Demoman himself, but no cart was capable of something like that. Demoman lifted up his Scumpy and took another drink. Another man's liver would've killed itself by now, jumped right off a cliff, but not Demoman. He was a drunken man among possibly drunken men. He drank like a _real American_.

Soldier could hear a shrill siren in the distance. All that alcohol made the blaze a bright light of honor and patriotism and defeated hippies in the distance.

True, they would have to get a new bar, but at least it wasn't being filled with peace and love and jangly folk songs. They had given their bar a fitting farewell, bathed in flames and explosions.  
It would be buried in an American flag, and then they'd find a new bar to have fights and drinks in, one never to be tainted by fringe and long hair and flowers if they had anything to do with it.

"Push that cart!" Demoman yelled out as a battle cry.

"Pushing the cart!" Soldier bellowed back.

"Aye!" Demoman lifted his fist, and they charged off into the night, the fitting sound of explosions and sirens to their back.

*

Soldier had barely wheeled Demoman into the base before Miss Pauling was waiting for him. She may have only come to his chest, but she was as tough as any drill sergeant, and definitely not to be underestimated. 

"A little word with both of you in my office, _please_ ," she said.

Demoman teetered as he came out from he cart, and Soldier quickly leapt to catch him. Demoman leaned against him, for one always protected their comrades. Well, technically this Demoman was on the other team, but never mind! They were American comrades _in spirit_! Just like he was a Soldier in spirit, with the medals to prove it!

When he arrived in her tight, neat office, he barely had enough room to turn around. The papers were scattered on her desk, in a direct contrast to how orderly everything else was.

"Did a cat come up and mess up your desk, wee lassie?" Demoman asked.

"Yes. A troublesome little _cat_ who runs fast and won't stop talking. But that's of no concern, here," she said tightly. She pulled up some papers and gave both of them a stern glance.

"According to this, near the proximity of your apartment, a bar you frequented and several city blocks caught flames," Miss Pauling said.

"And so what of it, lassie?" Demoman said. "You got any _proof?_ "

"...news reports cited a drunken black Scottish man wearing an eyepatch and a man in a tinfoil helmet screaming _for America!_ seen leaving the scene," Miss Pauling read off in a flat voice. "Need I go on?"

The door was suddenly kicked open, surprisingly without explosions this time, and Mr. Saxton Hale himself entered. Miss Pauling's papers were scattered in the breeze of his manliness, and she heaved a sigh as he strode in. His shorts were tight, his mustache was thick, and his fists were poised for punching. He claimed he was Australian, but Soldier knew a real American when he saw him.

"What is this now?" Saxton said, loud enough to wake up the other team. "There was a battle outside the base?"

"Mr. Degroot and Mr. Doe seem to have blown up a large portion of a city on a drunken spree of horrific violence," Miss Pauling said.

"Ahaha, drunken violence is the best kind! Now tell me, my men, is this true?"

"There were hippies _in our bar_. We had to show them what a _true American_ does with their kind!" Soldier bellowed.

"And Scotsman," Demoman said.

" _American_ ," Soldier talked over him.

"Good show, men! I think they deserve a raise, don't you, Miss Pauling?"

"...A raise, sir? The amount of work that it will take to cover up this incident—"

"Will all be worth it! Despite my firebombing of Woodstock, they are talking of overcoming and _making another one._ If I have to fight them all wielding only a wild bear I caught myself, then by God, I want these fine men at my back. Preferably with heavy artillery and enough alcohol to _fight like men should!_ "

"Well said!" Demoman said, and raised his bottle. Soldier hadn't even seen where he kept that one. Demoman was always full of mysteries.

"For America, not for hippies!"

Miss Pauling looked from one of them to the other. She had the sort of look someone got when they sucked on a lemon, and the lemon scented aliens that the communists were putting in all the fruit got to your brain. Soldier made a note to warn her about the lemons later.

"I'll go get started on the paperwork to cover up _yet another_ major attack, sir," Miss Pauling said. She went off on some paper finding mission, muttering under her breath.

"She's a good one, well worth what we pay her," Saxton said. He nodded, and before Soldier even had time to agree, he was thrusting his meaty fist out.

"Brothers! Comrades! Bump my fist!"

"A triple fist bump? I've never heard of such a thing happening. Aye, that sort of thing might bring on a lot of pain. We might lose an arm," Demoman said.

"Nonsense! We're all men, here. We can take a little pain! Lift up those fists!"

"For America!" Soldier cried out, so loud that he drowned out the cries of _for Australia!_ and _for Scotland!_ Their fists met in a trio of freedom, patriotism, and hippie destruction.

Soldier knew that together, Woodstock's tyranny of horrible haircuts and folk music would never prevail.


End file.
